Terms of Endearment
by Euph Yi
Summary: Mr. Kirkland is Matthew's hot new English teacher, and they soon start a troubled, disturbing relationship together. De-anon from the kink meme.
1. Chapter 1

He'd been attracted to Mr. Kirkland the moment the elder man walked into the room.

To put it in the simplest way Matthew knew how, he wanted their newest English teacher to bend him over the nearest desk and fuck him raw until he forgot his name, mewling and begging for any sort of release. He wanted to be hog-tied and licking Mr. Kirkland's boots like a pathetic, whimpering dog, and then held and kissed until his mind spun and his world collapsed.

Perhaps it wasn't so simple after all.

_Oh, God_, Matthew thought bitterly as he slunk into the back of the class where he usually sat. One look had sent immediate jolts straight to his cock. _I have issues._

One of his best friends, Alfred, and the more well-behaved of the two, nudged him from the side. "You look sick."

"Shut your mouth, Al."

Gilbert snickered from Alfred's other side. "I saw _liebling_'s eyes fall straight to Mr. Kirkland's ass, and then look pointedly away," he drawled in his thick accent.

These were the people with whom Matthew chose to surround himself with.

He was about to make a sharp retort (and maybe punch Gilbert in the face in the hopes that he'd bleed out) when Mr. Kirkland tapped the front desk sharply with a meter stick (a meter stick Matthew was definitely _not _having sick fantasies about right that moment).

"I'd like to have order, please," he said, and _oh god_, Matthew was already in love. Mr. Kirkland's voice was nothing less than a minor deity's lilt, complete with the most attractive British accent anyone could possibly hope to have — an accent that made Gilbert's voice sound like a goose honk.

"H-how old do you think he is?" Matthew whispered to Alfred before he could stop himself. To his credit, he managed to look relatively nonchalant while saying it, slouched in his chair and eyes focused directly _not_ on the curve of Mr. Kirkland's spine (because that was where the small of his back was, the perfect depression of body to worship with his tongue).

"I dunno," Alfred said, thankfully not pointing out the hiccup in Matthew's words. "Thirty? Thirty-five? All these old people look the same age to me."

Matthew licked his lips and began chewing his thumbnail as Mr. Kirkland did roll call.

"Matthew Williams?" Mr. Kirkland said when he reached Matthew's name, and Matthew would forever swear to his grave that he did _not_ just shiver.

"Here," he said in the most _bored _tone he could muster. _I'm not interested in you, I'm not interested in you, _he chanted in his head. _Please don't look at me._

Of course, Mr. Kirkland did. He peered at Matthew from behind frameless glasses, the sort of glasses that gave Matthew a funny squirmy feeling inside. He didn't wear glasses, himself, (even though he had horrible vision) because he thought they make him look low-key, but glasses on another person?

_Hello_, hot nerd-teacher BDSM fantasies!

"Not interested in being here, lad?"

"Am I that obvious, sir?" Matthew joked lamely, causing a titter to go through the class. _Am I? Am I that obvious that I want to be pinned underneath you, keening and moaning for your dick? _

"Frankly, I don't care, Matthew. But I expect nothing less than your one hundred percent at all times, no matter how much you want to be doing something else."

"I'd much rather do you, sir," Matthew muttered to himself.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Mr. Kirkland gave him one last narrow-eyed look, before setting down his attendance sheet. Matthew had been the last one on the list.

It was September 2nd, the first day of school, the third period of the day. And it looked like Matthew had a long, long year ahead of him.


	2. Chapter 2

Matthew couldn't stop thinking about eyebrows. Mr. Kirkland's ridiculous, inexplicably charming, they're-perfect-for-your-bone-structure-and-complexion-but-on-anyone-else-they'd-draw-ridicule eyebrows.

For once, his mind was elsewhere in the middle of having sex. He was under the bleachers, he was fucking the most popular girl at school (a girl he'd been lusting after for more than two weeks during the summer, now) and he couldn't stop thinking about Mr. Kirkland's goddamn _eyebrows_.

He was also wondering if his English teacher was a screamer.

"Oh, God," the girl cried from underneath him, body convulsing and heaving with every rough movement. She was a sprite risen from the depths of fucking-curves-and-bust-and-wanton-noises-land, and Matthew wished she was anyone but that, that he was _anywhere_ but here. "Oh, God, God, _God_ —"

What was her name again? Michelle, right?

"_Michelle_," he moaned in sync with her, albeit a little less enthusiastically.

All movement went dead still. The world probably stopped rotating on its axis. 'Michelle' opened her eyes and was silent for what seemed like the longest three seconds of Matthew's life. "My name is _Bella_," she snapped, tone ice-cold.

_Bella,_ right, the girl from Belgium, or something. Michelle had been _last_ month's. Matthew cursed himself for his stupidity as he pulled out, still hard and dripping. The moment (or whatever had been passing as a 'moment') was gone. "Of course," he said lamely as he tried to brush the situation off. "Bella. I —"

"Stay away from me," Bella snapped, slapping his hand away as he reached out for her. "I need to go."

Matthew mechanically helped her retrieve the clothes that they'd strewn all across the field, and then watched her blankly as she quickly dressed in her undergarments and marched away with the rest of her stuff bundled in her arms, tears streaming furiously down her face.

"_Fuck!_" Matthew yelled, when she was gone. He quickly jerked himself off to completion, and then zipped up his jeans and returned back to the school. He wasn't sorry at all.

* * *

It was the eighth day of the new school year, and they were holding their first hockey tryouts.

Matthew was already on the team, of course. He was the prodigy of hockey in the entire city, having led his team to record wins every season. He was expecting to be made captain this year, now that he was in the twelfth grade and Berwald was graduating in the spring, but their coach — while able to recognize Matthew's genius — didn't trust his unreliability and tendency to get into brutal fights with the other schools' captains when he lost his temper.

Berwald, Tino, Ivan, and Alfred were already there when Matthew arrived at the rink after the whole affair with Bella. "Sorry," Matthew muttered as he slid into his seat next to Alfred. "Am I late?"

"No, but you just missed Mr. Kirkland."

"Mr. Kirkland was here?" Matthew asked, probably sounding more excited than he was supposed to.

"No," Alfred said, smug. "But now I _know_ Mattie has an crush." He passed a crumpled piece of paper to Matthew, who squinted. It was the drawing he'd done earlier that day of Mr. Kirkland's face, with special emphasis on his aggrandized eyebrows. Alfred had somehow nicked it from his bag, the bastard.

"I do not —!" Matthew shouted, before receiving a scathing glare from Berwald. "I do not have a crush on Mr. Kirkland," he hissed, more softly this time. "In case you're a blind fucking asshole, that was me making fun of his h —" he cringed, "h-hideous eyebrows." _It's too early for this bullshit_, he thought, even though it was 3pm.

"Matthew," Berwald said suddenly, interrupting whatever Alfred was about to say (not that it could possibly have been something useful). "Get on the ice. We're starting."

* * *

In the end, a pint-sized freshman named Raivis turned out to be their best contender for a goalie. One on one, Matthew could barely get a goal in for every three he attempted. And that was saying something.

In a foul mood and not having gotten laid (properly) in over a month, Matthew plugged his headphones into his phone, cranked up the volume of his music, and began to head home. Besides thinking about Raivis blocking his every other shot and how _pissed off_ he was at that little 4"7 noodle (who did he think he was?), and how he was going to tear Alfred a whole new one the next time they met with no Berwald hovering hawk-like over his shoulder, he couldn't get Mr. Kirkland's gorgeous face out of his mind. Mr. Kirkland's gorgeous mouth, on him. Mr. Kirkland's gorgeous tongue, rimming him...

"Matthew — Matthew, old sport," came a very familiar voice, jerking Matthew out of his reverie.

Shit. Matthew had not mentally prepared himself for this sort of close proximity with the angel from his dreams. "Hey, Mr. Kirkland," he stuttered, about to step around the other and quickly get off school grounds before Mr. Kirkland could catch the deep blush blossoming in his cheeks.

"Lad, wait — I wanted to talk to you."

"Yeah?" Matthew asked, keeping his eyes squarely on his boots. They were a little scruffy around the edges. It'd been a while since he got a new pair. But these were nice boots — a deep, maroon red — "I — I need to be home soon," he continued, in case Mr. Kirkland wasn't getting the hint. _Yeah, right. The last time anyone had needed you to be home was six years ago._

"It'll be quick," Mr. Kirkland said, his smile containing the hint of a promise. "Just a moment of your time."

Like Matthew could ever deny anything Mr. Kirkland asked. If he wanted Matthew to drop to his knees and suck him off, Matthew would probably do it, with _God save the Queen_ running on repeat in his brain. Damn him and his teenage libido. Damn Mr. Kirkland and his weird sweater vest and his fitted trousers and his rugged, barely-legal attractiveness. He nodded quickly and swallowed hard.

They headed back to Mr. Kirkland's room, Matthew trailing closely behind the elder man the entire time. Mr. Kirkland smelled something like pine and tea and old books, and Matthew basked in it, wondering if there was a cologne he could get with that exact fragrance. Probably not.

"I take it upon myself to know each and every one of my students personally," Mr. Kirkland said, fumbling with his keys. They entered the room, and he closed the door behind them. "So I took the liberty of going through everyone's old school records —"

"Did you like what you saw?" Matthew drawled. If he made it difficult for Mr. Kirkland — if he distanced himself, pretended he didn't care — maybe Mr. Kirkland wouldn't notice how badly Matthew just wanted to get into his pants.

"Actually, I wasn't too surprised."

Of course he shouldn't have been surprised, but Matthew was slightly offended anyway. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Matthew, my boy, I've seen how apathetic you act in my class. We're only two weeks in, and yet not once have your eyes even _pulled away_ from your friends to look at me."

What a load of BS. Matthew had probably spent more time looking at Mr. Kirkland in just these past couple weeks than he spent looking at the back of his eyelids for five straight nights. Granted, he was not the type of teenager who got a lot of sleep.

"I want to help you," Mr. Kirkland said kindly.

So not only did Mr. Kirkland have a perfect ass, he was also one of those _nice_ guys. Well, he's gone ahead and done it. It's all over. Matthew would never be able to retrieve his sanity from this moment on.

"You think I care about my marks?" he asked.

"No. I don't presume to know more about you than you do. That's _why_ I want to help."

"So, you think there's something wrong with me."

"No, Matthew. I think you have a lot of great potential that could be put to better use. Like not keying your best friend's car in junior year."

"That asshole got what was coming, and why the _hell_ is that on my transcript?" Matthew blurted before he could stop himself.

Mr. Kirkland gave him a grim smile. "Sit," he commanded. Immediately, Matthew sat. Maybe there was a part of him that was anxiously awaiting more commands, maybe not.

"I'm alright at hockey," Matthew muttered. "That's not a waste of potential, is it?"

"Your coach told me that he wouldn't trust you with borrowing a spare pen."

It stung a little, but Matthew was used to it. He _had_ lost quite a few pens over the years, after all. "So, what do you want from me?"

"After school tutoring?"

Matthew glanced up with surprise. Mr. Kirkland looked amazingly composed and relaxed. As much as Matthew wanted him in all the sexual ways one human could _ever_ want another human, he wasn't too sure about actually spending time with his English teacher to do non-sexual related things. For one, he'd be given a worse rep than he already has. For another — well, Matthew honestly just didn't give a shit about his education.

Mr. Kirkland probably saw the indecision in Matthew's face. "I'm a better teacher one on one than I am in the classroom," he said. "I can go at your pace, completely. Never give you more than you can handle."

The truth was, Mr. Kirkland was the only reason Matthew got out of bed in the mornings anymore. Sure, it was a shitty reason, but it was a _real_ reason nevertheless. He made English class worthwhile for the first time in Matthew's entire high school career. And if Mr. Kirkland could make learning just the tiniest bit more enjoyable for him, _while_ he got _private alone time_ with the hottest male ever to step foot on school grounds, then hell yeah, Matthew would take that offer.

"Perhaps I'll give you some more time to think about this —" Mr. Kirkland said.

"No," Matthew interrupted. "No, that's fine. I'm up for it."

"Really?" Mr. Kirkland laughed. "I didn't think you'd accept."

"Me, neither," Matthew admitted, smiling genuinely for the first time in what felt like the longest time.

He still wanted to be fucked until the sheets were soaked and there were permanent red nail marks trailing down Mr. Kirkland's back, and he still wanted to be suffocated and choked and held to the ground like scum, but he could deal with this, too.

He could pull himself together. It was entirely possible. For a moment, Matthew imagined what it would be like to clean up, become a respectable student (maybe even more like Alfred, the good boy, even though Alfred was still far from respectable), get a career in professional hockey and _not_ have everyone whom he's ever cared for treat him like he was a failure.

Mr. Kirkland had given Matthew something he'd never thought he'd have, even if it was for a precious few seconds — hope.

He would be eternally grateful.

_Eternally_ grateful.


	3. Chapter 3

When Matthew returned home that evening, it was to the smell of something burning.

He stepped deftly over the mound of old groceries piled in front of the door to turn off the stove before the fire alarm was set off. "Mom?" he called tentatively from the kitchen.

"In here."

She was surrounded by a layer of used tissues on the bed and was tucked in between missionary-given blankets and cheap wool pillows. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth, while a _W Magazine_ hung upside down from her yellowed fingertips.

"My love, how was your day?"

"You left the stove on," Matthew accused.

She spat out her cigarette. Matthew followed the trail of ashes it carved through the air with his eyes. "I was making dinner."

She hadn't made dinner since he was in diapers. He wanted to tell her he didn't believe her, but the sight of her sitting so woefully on the bed, dwarfed by her sheets, tugged on his heartstrings a little. "We can always have take-out," she suggested, when Matthew was silent. "Be a dear and call for some Thai food, won't you?"

"I don't have any cash left," said Matthew impatiently. "And I'm trying to cut down. Berwald said I won't be fit for hockey anymore if I don't stop eating fast food." Of course, that was a blatant lie. Berwald knew shit about what Matthew ate.

"Fuck Berwald," his mother spat. "I told your school, didn't I? That _you_ deserved to be captain more than anyone else. You're the most talented, after all."

"I _know_, and I told you. You can't just call the school and start making demands like that."

She snorted and reached for her lighter as though to smoke another cigarette, but instead, she held it up to a corner of her magazine. Matthew watched blankly as it burned to a crisp and was reduced to almost nothing between her nails. "I just want the best for my boy," she said finally. "You know that."

"…I'm going to Al's. Should I bring anything back for you?"

"I've decided I'm going on a diet."

He thought about how much he hated criers and pathetic fathers and weak mothers and adults who were really children.

"Since when?"

"Since immediately. Get out of my room."

Matthew was growing frustrated, but he calmed his anger in favour of trying to be the bigger person. "You still have to eat something tonight."

"I'll have something when you decide to grow up and appreciate me for everything I've done. I liked you a lot better when you were polite and reserved and shy like you used to be."

So Matthew left, worn-out and pissed off.

He fumed all the way to Alfred's. There was a pent-up rage inside him he didn't know how to extinguish — the sort of blinding anger that emerges when the other hockey team commits a fucking penalty, and the ref doesn't catch it. Sometimes he would think back to that ref, and how pleasant it would feel dominating the _fuck_ out of him, and making him pay.

When he showed up on the other's doorstep, dripping with sweat and looking miserable as hell, Alfred just clicked his tongue sympathetically and let Matthew in. "I saved leftovers," was all Alfred said.

Matthew microwaved the cold potatoes and peas and sat down to eat while Alfred did his homework next to him. A long, tense moment passed, the only sound being that of Matthew's chewing and Alfred's sloppy scribbling as both of them ignored the glaring elephant in the room. Alfred knew all about Matthew's home life — they'd grown up together. Finally, —

"Mr. Kirkland offered to give me extra tutoring lessons."

Alfred looked up. "_Dude_," he whispered. "It's only the second week of school."

"He went through our old school files. Apparently he 'wasn't surprised' with what he saw."

"He must really like you," Alfred snickered.

"Shut up." Matthew flicked a pea at him. "I still haven't forgiven you yet for going through my bag."

"It's my job as your best friend to find out who's got you all dreamy-eyed these past two weeks. Does he know you're totally gay for him?"

Matthew was about to throw more peas at Alfred's face when Al's father came into the kitchen. He gave Matthew a single glance, before saying in a dangerously low voice, "Al."

"Hey, sir," Matthew said weakly. He was ignored.

"Al, you know what I said about bringing fags into this home."

"Maybe you should go," Alfred said apologetically to Matthew. He was looking down at his pencil, tracing circles into the wooden table.

Matthew was going to, anyway. "Thanks for the food," he muttered quickly, before grabbing his jacket and bag and heading out the door. Even after all these years of knowing Alfred, his best friend's family had still never accepted him for who he was. To them, he was a bad influence and a cocksucker. His mother was a closeted whore.

It wasn't like it mattered to him, at the end of the day. Nothing he could ever change about himself would bring his father back to them, or make his mother stop feeling sorry for herself long enough to properly take care of her son.

He wasn't finished feeling angry, not even when he'd walked four miles from home to the playground he'd grown up on. He wasn't even sure what he was angry at anymore when he ripped out his textbooks and binders and class notes and spread them all across the cement paving of the basketball court. Even the copy of Mr. Kirkland's well-loved English book — _The Great Gatsby_ — wasn't spared from his rampage.

Because Mr. Kirkland wasn't there, was he? And in the end it was just Matthew, alone, like he always was, surrounded by the ruins of everything he touched.


	4. Chapter 4

Their first after-school tutoring session began on the fourth day of the fourth week of September, which happened to be the first day of autumn. Something came with that day like the turn of a century, or the death of a star, or the first crack in a shell hiding an inconvenient truth. In the days leading up to their session, Matthew carried on like he always did, with twice-a-week hockey practices and sneaking-into-Alfred's-after-midnight-to-play-Pokemon and dozing off in all his classes (except Mr. Kirkland's).

The news about him and Bella had spread throughout the school like wildfire, too. But like most scandalous rumours that came and passed, Matthew simply waited quietly for it to blow over. And it did. Bella might have been the schools' hottest pride and joy, but what happened between her and Matthew was just another scratch to etch on Matthew's long list of reasons-to-avoid-this-boy.

So Matthew didn't really give a rat's ass if everyone hated him just a little bit more.

Mr. Kirkland's approval, however, was more important to Matthew than anything else. On the day of their session, he even dressed nicely (well, 'nicely' was putting it generously, giving the state of his wardrobe). He showered the night before (he usually never took daily showers) and brushed his hair (he usually never brushed his hair) and swapped his blindness for the glasses he found gathering dust under his bed (he usually never wore his glasses).

Even Alfred whistled when he saw Matthew.

"You're really taking this seriously, aren't you?" he asked, laughing.

Matthew couldn't begin to start explaining how Mr. Kirkland made him feel like he was an important member of society and that he mattered. Or how Mr. Kirkland made him feel like a wench in the pirate-fantasies of his inner mind and how he wanted to be bent over and spanked.

"I just felt like trying something new today," was all he said in response.

"Just remember," Alfred said, leering. "It's not a date."

"Fuck off."

"I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that you actually have a _thing_ for Old Man Kirkland, in all his uppity bossiness and…and oldness."

"Fuck_ off,_ you ass."

Mr. Kirkland looked just as surprised to see him that morning when it was English class. He didn't, however, point anything out in front of everyone (because he wasn't an immature adolescent with hateful desires to embarrass him to death like Alfred was).

Matthew reddened when Mr. Kirkland looked at him, anyway.

_I'm doing this for you_, he thought. _Because maybe — just maybe — you're worth it._

Mr. Kirkland asked him to stay after class.

"You know it wasn't all just a plan to indebt you, right?" he asked.

"I didn't do this for you," Matthew said immediately, gesturing to all of himself.

"What on earth are you talking about, lad? I meant paying attention today in class. I thought I saw you taking down notes."

"Oh." Matthew's complexion deepened considerably. He seemed to be blushing an awful lot lately. "I didn't want to show up at our da — at our _session_ — empty-handed. Are you accusing me of doing what I'm supposed to, for once?"

"By the gods, I was just surprised. I don't want you to feel obligated to change drastically for me overnight. No matter what, I will not judge you, Matthew." And then he smiled.

Mr. Kirkland had no idea the depths of which Matthew was willing to go for him. If he told Matthew to jump, Matthew would only ask how high.

They ended up at the coffee shop behind the school, sitting across from each other at a four-man table with their books spread haphazardly across it. Mr. Kirkland asked Matthew to start with a few basic exercises. They went through some grammar techniques Matthew had never heard of before, and then he lead him through the first ten pages of _Heart of Darkness_.

Mr. Kirkland ordered tea for both of them. "I drink about three cups of it every day," he admitted, as though it was something to be embarrassed about.

"I do, too," Matthew blurted, which was untrue. Like he could afford tea. Like he would ever spend what little money he had on hot leaf juice when he could be spending it on new hockey gear (or hot dinners). "Well, maybe only one or two cups. Of tea. I'm a really big fan," he finished lamely.

"Why, Matthew, I never pegged you down as someone who enjoys tea!"

Matthew loved the way Mr. Kirkland said his name.

Their 'date' ended all too soon, and there was a part of Matthew that was disappointed because he'd been expecting more. Exactly _what_ he'd been expecting, he wasn't sure — it wasn't like Mr. Kirkland would have sex with him on their first date — so Matthew wasn't too worried. They set their next 'study date' for just two days after that, and Matthew spent the next morning dreaming non-stop about all the things that could happen between them.

That afternoon in the coffee shop, though, really was the best date of his entire life. Hell, it was the best night of his entire life. Not many people could come into existence so perfectly the way Mr. Kirkland did for Matthew, and not many people could flip another person's entire world around the way Mr. Kirkland did for Matthew. Mr. Kirkland did both.

It was amazing, the things Mr. Kirkland did to him. All his life and never was there another person who would focus their attention on him so fully, or treat him like a genuine human being and not a complete outcast.

It was there, surrounded by the smell of coffee and the sight of well-loved books, that Matthew decided Mr. Kirkland was his. Forever.


End file.
